


for the record

by shatou



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (but all of it is a dream), Alternate Universe - Post-War, Anakin’s wet dream, Bottom Anakin, Established Relationship, Gangbang, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Clones, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The Author Regrets Nothing, Top Obi-Wan, three of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Anakin finds a folder of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber training videos. His ever-vivid mind supplies the rest.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 20
Kudos: 204





	for the record

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Duskscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskscribe/gifts).



> as usual my friend [Dusk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskscribe/) is to blame i take no responsibilities for my actions whatsoever

After autopsy pronounced Palpatine’s definite death by the maws of the Zillo beast and a subsequent investigation exposed his insidious alter ego, the Clone War crumbles to an abrupt conclusion. There are still loose ends to tie, particularly when the Count of Serenno turns himself in to the Temple specifically in exchange for immunity. His vacant spot leaves behind a handful of other Separatist figureheads vying for that position of power, a problem that could only be countered by the plethora of information that Count Dooku chucks in alongside his plea deal: years of bounty hunter payment records and clandestine plans and secret transmissions, all stored in hundreds of thousands of datacards and the likes. The Temple exhausts its intelligence units, and any Jedi who are well-versed enough in technology are called in to give a hand.

Anakin settles in his and Obi-Wan’s quarters alone one evening, tired eyes tracking between two great monitors and hands maneuvering a complex keyboard, all of which were borrowed from the tech center. His Master, predictably, is attending yet another headache-inducing Council meeting, while Anakin sits sifting through the massive storage of data, feeling progressively more drowsy by the minute. He’s close to nodding off when a certain folder name catches his eyes.

_O-W KENOBI_

The immediate burst of curiosity and alarm pulls him out of his groggy state. He taps the folder, anticipation brewing low in his stomach. He really doesn’t know what to expect, as the content of the folder begins to load on one monitor.

They’re videos. Rows after rows of videos, titles numbered, automatically recorded by the lightsaber training droids in the dojo. The Temple has a protocol whereby all training sessions of Jedi who are of age are recorded, kept private and archived under their own name. This sort of archiving shall serve educational purposes in the hypothetical scenario of, for example, all Jedi suddenly vanishing from the galaxy, leaving the next generations of Force-sensitives unaccounted for. It is unlikely, but the Jedi think very far ahead.

Currently, though, Anakin Skywalker is not thinking anything at all.

The folder contains all of Obi-Wan’s training videos since his late Padawan years. It seems Obi-Wan had the habit of sparring shirtless even back then: here was a flush of sunset glistening on the planes of his back muscle; there was a shaft of gentle morning glow slanted across the then-thin smattering of coppery hair on his chest. His Padawan braid was tied only in the middle and left long and flowing at the ends, and it swung and fanned out and tangled as he moved, as elegant and surefooted as a swan. Sometimes Obi-Wan the Padawan forwent grace for power, and those were the clips that have Anakin’s jaws dropping. Obi-Wan fought with a pure, reckless, _senseless_ vigor that Anakin has never seen before in his Master, twisting and dipping and delivering deadly thrusts utilizing only the basic form; then he’d spin around with arrogant ease, his tuft of hair bouncing behind his head, his smile effortless and slight.

Past a certain number, and suddenly the Obi-Wan in the clips is his Master as Anakin has known him throughout his years growing up. Knight Kenobi, fresh-faced and sorrow-eyed, with hair falling all the way to his shoulder and scars coming up all the way to his breastbone. His hair was let loose in all of its honeyed glory even as mad locks strayed over his brows, his eyes, as he fought; they never seemed to impede him at all, from the moment he sprang from his opening Soresu stance, to the moment he wrapped up his slashes and cuts and receded serenely into victory. He didn’t smile anymore, or at least not as often. The few videos where he did smile, Anakin finds a familiar figure in there: himself, by then already standing taller than his Master, smooth chested next to the thickened golden auburn that trailed all along Obi-Wan’s front and arms.

From there on he finds himself appearing more and more often, as Obi-Wan’s fighting style refined itself, looking ever more tranquil beside Anakin’s own dramatic somersaults; and yet there were still so much similarities between them, the deflective wrenching moves, the distracting spins, the bait-and-switch strikes, the come-hither leaps. Anakin skips the videos with himself. There are only a scant few of those where Obi-Wan, worn by the duties of a General and a Council Master, still found the time to swing his lightsaber in the training room. Then, he was a strange mix between the distinguished Master he had become and the unabashed Padawan he once was. The war had infused a certain brutality into his movements; not at all cruel, but hard and fast and terrifyingly efficient, something Anakin hardly had the time ever to watch while he was either deflecting blaster bolts, or parrying Obi-Wan himself.

The one constant throughout is how mesmerizing Obi-Wan always looks. From the first video where his hair still hung in a braid over his shoulder, to the last video where sweat glistened on his greyed temples, he was a raptor in flight, a snow stork when static; statuesque in form and figure, picturesque in his bladed dance. And it doesn’t matter when it was that his lanky form began to fill, that his arms thickened and his shoulders broadened and the youthful arrogance in his eyes darkened into a somber, understated confidence. He’s beautiful regardless, a vision in every light, a shimmering spot in the Force and in the night.

“In the night, hm?”

Anakin whips around. There Obi-Wan stands, arms crossed, head cocked, stance off-kilter and smile off-kilter, one shoulder propped against the door frame, Padawan braid draping over it. His hair is close-cropped, unstreaked with grey whatsoever. Anakin looks at him, mouth agape, although the confusion doesn’t stop his gaze from wandering to the hollow of Obi-Wan’s throat. He looks younger than Anakin right now, and his eyes glint with mirth when he leans forward to catch Anakin’s gaze.

“What’s that, Skywalker? Already staring?”

His amused chuckle sends a bolt of heat twisting up Anakin’s stomach. He laughs weakly, rubbing his eye as he slowly rises to his feet. “Well, can you blame me?”

“Oh, Padawan, forgive me, I _would_ blame you,” says a voice into Anakin’s ear, accompanied by a warm, damp breath that rolls down his skin and raises goosebumps in its wake. Anakin shivers, his reflexes blunted entirely by the familiar scrape of beard against the hinge of his jaw. Arms gently snake around his waist; hands pull at the simple cord of his home tunic; and Anakin glances briefly over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Obi-Wan, hair falling to his shoulder, smile sharp as a hawk’s claw. 

“Master…”

“You flighty thing,” Padawan Obi-Wan lilts in front of him. He takes Anakin’s face by the jaw, firmly pivoting his gaze back with a thumb rested against the divot in his chin. “Think you can ignore me now that you’ve got your Master?”

“Who said I was going to ignore you?” Anakin grins. His sleeves slip from his arms; his tunic slips to the floor. He sighs from the furred touch of Knight Obi-Wan’s chest right up against his back, and his hands come up to frame the Padawan’s face.

“Your attention is quite split, shall I say,” whispers Knight Obi-Wan, pointedly pressing a whiskery kiss to his neck.

“I can manage…”

Any noise that might’ve left his throat is drowned in the slant of Padawan Obi-Wan’s mouth over his own. Anakin’s eyes fall shut. Lips part lips and tongue slide past tongue, searing, meltingly sweet; his finger winds into the Padawan braid while his other hand grasps at Obi-Wan’s pulled back hair. The kisses on his neck roughen into suction and scrapes of teeth as they trail to his clavicle. Anakin moans into Obi-Wan’s mouth, earning a deft flick of a tongue and, without preamble, a sudden hand diving down to cup his cock. He startles at the touch yet arches himself into Obi-Wan’s palm - which Obi-Wan, he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care.

“Can you manage, truly?”

Anakin can barely break off from the kiss on his own. He’s panting when the Padawan pulls back with a low laughter and a teasing kiss on his lip corner, and his gaze is still dazed as it lifts towards the direction of the third voice. Obi-Wan, his Master the Jedi General, has come close enough to run a calloused hand down Anakin’s bare arm. “Can you, Anakin?” he reiterates, smiling, his drawl as light as down. His thumbs hook into Anakin’s waistband, and Anakin, breath hitching and fingers digging down into flesh, gasps out a breathless, “Yes, Master.”

Easily, swiftly, deftly, the last garment is stripped from his body. Anakin stares down, panting, feeling damn near feverish with every kiss that Master Obi-Wan presses up his thigh. His body is molten songsteel worked and reworked in Kenobi hands, undulating between lips and hips as he gasps and grasps and grapples for anchor. The youngest Obi-Wan laughs against his jaw and nips at his pulsepoint; the eldest Obi-Wan sighs against his heart and drags a tongue across his nipple. Sensations swirl and overlap and resonate and amplify, and spiral into movements till he finds himself in Knight Obi-Wan’s lap. Heat coils at the base of his spine; he curves, taut as a bow, hot and tight and unbearably raw when slick, warm fingers slip into him.

Knight Obi-Wan kisses him on the shell of his ear, and then teeth graze his earlobe. “You are doing very well.”

“But you could do better,” singsongs Padawan Obi-Wan, leaning their foreheads together for the briefest moment. His fingers stroke languidly up Anakin’s cock, from base to tip with a teasing thumb running over the slit. Anakin moans, writhing, inadvertently fucking himself back onto Obi-Wan’s fingers inside him. Stars spiral through his body, and he whines, unabashed when there’s so little to bridle him, until a gentle finger pad holds down his bottom lip. He looks up just as his Master kisses him between the brows, and between his parted lips he finds Master Obi-Wan‘s fingers, not forceful, but insistent. He takes them, working his mouth up around them knuckle by knuckle, tongue swirling heedless of the seal of his lips breaking, of the saliva running down his chin. He watches the flush rise on Obi-Wan’s face and the smile curve beneath the softness of his whiskers, and he moans again around those fingers at the soft, whispered, “Good boy.”

Between his legs, Obi-Wan’s fingers curl and crook and spread inside him, making his legs twist and his thighs tremble. When he tips his head back and mewls around the fingers that part his lips, Obi-Wan chuckles from behind him, hands tightening to a near-bruising grip on his hips to lift him up. His cock nudges at him in the cleft. Anakin clutches armfully around smooth, slender shoulders for leverage, pushing himself back. Sparks burst white-hot behind his eyes when Obi-Wan holds him still and rolls his hips, agonizingly slow. His words dissolve around the fingers that still press onto his tongue. A Padawan braid tickles him by the sweat-damp collarbone, and Obi-Wan’s young, playful laughter tickles his cheek. Obi-Wan’s hand quickens on his leaking, aching cock, spreading slick along the shaft. He rocks up and bears down, keening against his Master’s hand just as it pulls away. “Obi-Wan,” he sobs. He’s dizzy and giddy and barely able to breathe and certainly not able to last, and when Obi-Wan finally snaps his hips into him in a proper thrust—

“...Anakin?”

Anakin startles awake and promptly falls from his chair. He looks up, hot-faced and disoriented, wiping the back of his hand over the drool on his lips. Obi-Wan stands above him, lips in a line, concern written on his face.

“You’re… You’re back,” Anakin manages, still out of breath, staggering to his feet, holding onto the back of his chair for balance. It’s hard, when you’re hard. He laughs weakly. “I fell asleep.”

“So I see.” Obi-Wan nods, and Anakin realizes that his lips are pursed to hold back a smile - one that blooms fully now, just a second before Obi-Wan’s hand rubs at his beard, covering his mouth. “Forgive me if I was concerned, dear one. You were calling my name quite… insistently.”

The heat on Anakin’s face immediately blazes up ten notches. Anakin clears his voice. “I… did?” 

“You did. A few times.” Obi-Wan steps closer, a hand running down Anakin’s arm in a fashion eerily reminiscent of him in the dream. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to share?”

“Well…” Anakin presses close enough for Obi-Wan to feel him. He bites his lip as he smiles, when his Master lets out a low, dark _Oh_. “It’s probably better shown than told, Master.”


End file.
